Dyed in the Wool
by aphtrashbin
Summary: The sense of morality that Gabriel Reyes had fostered in him, along with the deep love he'd felt for him, despite how they ended, it was ingrained in Jesse as the red was dyed in the wool o' his serape. He has to move forward, take care of his old ghosts and stop running from it all. The sequel to Cigarette Daydream. McReyes.
1. Chapter 1

There was only ever so much running a man could do before his problems caught up to him. Not that McCree was really all that interested in running from this particular problem. Years have past, times have changed; the man in black flees across the desert, and this time the gunslinger follows.

XXXXX

MARCH, 2075

There's something cursed about the first night you spend in someone else's home. Its unlike the feeling you get a hotel, and its unlike just visiting a place. Its somehow the complete fucking opposite of a liminal space- instead'a bein' the in between spot, you somehow felt like the unwilling voyeur on whatever the hell the occupants had ever done, past present and future, n' also like you're the other woman, or a third wheel to the Nth degree.

Now, if that feeling was amplified by the fact that Jesse McCree had broken in to this particular home, and he had no Godly idea who the occupants were, that wasn't anyone's business but his damn self.

And that was how he'd found himself in someone else's kitchen, making coffee with some ol lady's very nice coffee machine, with someone else's coffee grounds. At least he was a good guest, cleaning up after his messes, and only sleeping on the couch. But hey, it was hard to get a motel when you were upstate of the gentrification line of Arizona, and the only option was a hotel that definitely woulda had questions for him.

Well, the rich white folks who lived here wouldn't really notice his presence. And he always provided his own alcohol, he thought self-deprecatingly as he held his flask, poised to pour a good serving of whiskey into his coffee.

"Really?" Came the familiar, disappointed voice, and Jesse doesn't even bother turning around. Merely snorted, and shrugged, taking a long pause to think over this particular decision, putting a hand to his forehead, in a useless attempt to see if he was feverish.

"You're right, Gabe." He addressed the specter, before downing the burnin' drink wholesale, straight from the flask. "Ain't no point in playing coy." He mumbled to nothin' in particular, seeing as the specter was gone, and he was alone.

And alone he'd been, for years now. Too many years, really.

He turned on the television, because there ain't no point to hiding from the worlds problems right now. The news rang off with the familiar story, of the Second Omnic Crisis, and the spillover from that. New death counts, totals, word of Russian resistance and new casualties in other parts of the world.

He sighed, watching it and rubbing his face, before sitting down with his coffee and whiskey.

The loneliness was really startin' to get to him, that he had to admit- the hallucinations were gettin' worse. The reason he was here, couped up in some rich persons home while he reorganized and reset himself, was 'cause he'd gone out all the way to Hanamura in search of a certain green cyborg asshole. 'Cause once upon a time, Genji and him hadn't exactly been friends, or enemies- but they'd really not just been coworkers either. They'd been somethin' a lil more, and a lil less. Somewhere in the in between.

That last time they'd spoken had been in Watchpoint: Gibraltar, and it felt like a lifetime ago.

" _So you're drinking now."_

Genji's voice reverberated off in the back of his mind, as he sat there and drank from his flask, hand gently swirling the liquid within as he twirled it slowly around, head down as he thought back to it. Speak of- or really, McCree mused, think of- the devil, and he appeared.

The hallucinations weren't necessarily new; they'd been following him ever since the nightmare that had sent him running out of Overwatch to begin with. But admittedly, they were worse when he was drinking, and if you had to ask if McCree was drinking, then hell, he was sorry for your lack of basic abilities of perception.

He was drinking, yes, back then, and even now. He'd not even realized how bad he'd had it back then. Hell, he was well aware of his vice now, but still, the comment had stung, and it had stung badly, and he'd boiled beneath the surface.

" _Don't deflect me. I know how you feel about this mess McCree. There's no way you're just going to simply sit here and do nothing about it. They're going to come for people like us."_

Genji'd been right, on all ends. Genji was right about how he'd felt, back then, and was right about how McCree didn't wind up sittin' there, doin' nothin' about it. And they had come for him, oh Lord God above, they had come for him.

He took another harsh sip as pain struck him, his feelings too much for him to deal with. It was easier to cope when alcohol tempered the depression just to the point where he would be sad, but functional.

 _"Where will you be when all this goes wrong, Jesse McCree?"_ The specter of Genji asked him, and McCree had to rub his eyes and look down, from its accusatory glare, while the memory answered for him, so stupidly, naively wrong.

 _Angie's eyes, red from tears, her little hands balled up into tight lil' fists, shaking in her upset. "Genji. He...told me he was leaving. His mission was over, and so he was going to leave."_ Angie, dear Angie- he'd not seen her, not talked to her in _years_. It was of his own making.

Torbjorn's face, stuck in horror, unable to find the words as both McCree and the newer baby of Overwatch, Tracer, assaulted him with the same question. _"Rookie...McCree... No, Lena, and Jesse." The sorrowful look that melted onto his face. "She didn't make it back at all. Ana's dead."_

 _Reinhardt, so boisterous and proud, his greyed head bent over in submission as he was forced into retirement, effective immediately after Ana's funeral._

 _"I didn't see her. I wasn't there. I should have gone to her during Ramadan. I should have been with her for Eid. No, she can't be dead, she was barely in her 50s. She shouldn't have died. She can't be gone."_ Fareeha's cries at her funeral continued to echo in the empty space, the high ceilings of the house reverberating with her pain that she spilled out from her being in the way they were all feeling inside. Ana had been family, their friend. And she was gone. It hurt, even now. He tried to stop himself from thinking, tried to focus on the news, but found himself completely unable to. It took ahold of him, and just refused to let him go.

Torbjörn's rage after the funeral, when the whole base was working in a haze of grief and fear of the future- his dramatic exit from Overwatch also stirred around in his mind as he sipped his coffee, still trying to ignore his own head, shuffling along from the kitchen, trying to locate a computer. _"We do everything we were asked for 20 odd years, and this is how you repay us?"_ Often, Jesse wondered the same damn thing, as he was now 36, having been doing what he felt was just for not yet 20 years- and nothin' to show for it but the warrant for his arrest and the bounty hanging over his head all the while as he hung his head.

 _And then there'd been the trial. His trial, of course, the one where he was put up for his misconduct by bein' in London when Blackwatch was benched, for stopping a bomb, saving the lives of 11 people, n' blowing his damn self up._ They were always so quick to place blame on others. But he finally found the computer, and signed in, quickly, as his guest user- Joel Morricone. He had to just publish a mostly written story, real fast, about what had gone down when he'd been away.

But the worst part of it all was Gabriel himself.

 _"Ingrate. Don't you know what everyone's done for you? What I've done for you? This is their fault, and I've done everything I can, and you still defend them. You, who have sat on your ass and himmed and hawed about not knowing what to do- about leaving. Talking with Amari all the time, scheming behind our backs."_

It had hurt. It had hurt him to the depth of his core- and he couldn't find the words to stop the black tar that was the hatred that spilled out of the man who he'd _loved_. _"Traitor. Should have known you would be one. You were so quick to turn on your bedfellows with Deadlock. Ingrate. I'm doing this for you, and you're telling me that we shouldn't?"_

And then the damned end of it all- with Gabriel's eyes cruel, and hard. " _Were you going to say we should run away together? Ridiculous. Something out of a children's fantasy. I wanted you because I thought you were beyond thinking of things like_ _ **love**_ _."_

But he wasn't. He had planned on asking him that. Because he wasn't beyond thinking, wanting, love.

 _"I won't be anywhere when things go wrong, 'cause things won't go wrong."_ He'd said, and god, he hiccupped as he recalled how mistaken he was, his chest hurting as he remembered the end of that conversation _"I will follow him to hell. That's what loyalty is. S' what love is."_ How completely fuckin' blind he'd been to the reality of his situation. Here he was, 5 years past with nothin' to show for it except a crippling addiction to alcohol, hallucinations and ghosts hauntin' him at all hours of the day, and a few million dollars added to his name. And in the end, mocked for his own feelings by the person he felt them for.

But his tears weren't met with more specters. He was seemingly free of them, for the time being. His breathing hard, he just…rubbed his eyes, and kept on keeping on.

He finished writing his article, and uploaded it with ease from the rich folks computer, sighing as he read the title. "THE NEW PEACEKEEPERS: Vigilante Justice- Vital in a Post-Overwatch World?"

The article in itself was admittedly a bit of a leading question, but McCree was damn tired of always playing the villain and walking into his own noose, inadvertently tightening the rope.

5 years since Gabe and Jack went down in flames with Zurich and Jesse's old life, 4 since Overwatch's collapse, and in McCree's fine opinion, that meant that some people were bound to start feelin' nostalgic for how things used to be. True, he'd been in Hanamura attempting to locate a particularly slippery ex-coworker of his, but the people there surely remember how much better the streets were when Blackwatch took down the Shimada clan. And now they're back.

He wanted folks to change their minds about him, n' other vigilantes- he knew other ex-Overwatch folks had the same idea that he did, that they could still do good in the world…

He sighed, rubbing his temples as he sat at the computer, and stared. …Being honest with himself, he'd thought he'd find Genji there, wanting to fight old ghosts and recreate old battles, just as he was about to do. The article in itself was really just…a way of getting the word out to anyone who was lookin'- that Jesse McCree was alive and well, n' lookin' for some good old-fashioned help. The article finished with suggesting that he was rounding up a posse- though the words weren't something he'd ever say aloud, per say, if Genji ever saw it, he'd know that it was McCree that had written it.

A long time mockery that was one of Genji's favorites was accusing McCree of having a posse, given his only real experience with American culture prior to being in Overwatch was through movies, and Genji also had this rather twisted idea he was cosplaying, when really, that's just how some folks down where he grew up dressed. Now that he'd abandoned the Blackwatch look himself, he hoped…maybe, even though they'd parted on nasty terms, they could work together.

He finished looked at his article, having freshly updated the page, and eyed the side links. Beneath the recommended for you section was nothin' but the reminder that he was alone now- and that his sins were still ever present, ever needing accounting for.

"Deadlock Biker Club National Rally." Slick, but Jesse knew em better than that. He'd worked for em for years too, before Reyes plucked him out of the litter as the best damn marksman he'd ever seen with a six-shooter- and the only one to ever get a gun to Gabriel's head. The true reason he'd stood out all those years ago- his confidence as he held a gun to the temple of a super soldier, the hero of the omnic crisis, 12 years his senior, in the middle of his team, having gotten the drop on Gabriel, gotten up closer n' personal, behind enemy lines without them ever noticing.

Their infamous first contact- made so by the Challenge Reyes would set to others, to see who could recreate that- aside…Jesse knew Deadlock. Their new name was to not raise suspicion, but in the 21st century, they all knew the damage that rally's could do, and what types of folks it could bring out given what had happened in the second decade of the century.

That mess aside, Jesse McCree was now placed to continue with Reyes' legacy, and clean up Deadlock now that its head got too big all over again and it's an oversized pimple of the face of the American Plains. Now, that was a fair bit of a problem, considering the people round there hated his face. That Deadlock propaganda that always had a ring o' Truth to it- that he'd been turned over to the other side, that he'd come in with those millions hanging over his head and lead the town into despair. Or they could turn him in and make somethin' more than two coins to rub together. Honestly, he understood them fine.

Money never really changed, see. Didn't really matter to folks if it was covered in blood when they got it out of the vending machine or when they turned in a relatively good man for the ghosts of a gang a lifetime ago. Least it felt like to him. Those times were over, not quite 20 years earlier. Finished when a man who, even now, meant the world to him despite how he was long since gone, took him in under his wing.

Not that these times were truly too much different. He just had a stronger sense of morality.

Which made him sigh, _again_ , because he knew how this was going to go down, if he did show up. But he also knew himself, even if things had gotten a lil more foggy over the years, given how Overwatch's fall and Reyes…had made him question himself, and his loyalties, and his personal sense of justice.

But he also knew, show his face there and he'd get another couple hundred added to his bounty, and there was a mighty big chance he could fuck up this mission he assigned himself. But if he didn't, if he let him get away... He was becoming a bigger and bigger problem. Not just to Overwatch, but to the world. "Someone has to do it, seems fitting it'd be me." McCree murmured, rubbing his face logged out of the computer, staring at the other article's description.

" _The Crisis is over- but the search for answers isn't."_

That it wasn't. And McCree was still searching for em.

And one day, he'd have em all, 'cause even the devil was bound to get right, and in the eyes of society, the devil was him.

Gabriel Reyes might have changed in the end, but that didn't mean that Jesse would just sit by and let his hard work against the scourge of the southwest fade from living memory. Transporting WMDs made the whole world a whole lot less safe, and it was about time for someone to pay for it.

After all…a bomb like the one that had blown up Zurich had to have come from somewhere- and Jesse had gotten an inkling once he'd seen photos of what the bomb in London had left of itself who was the supplier. Well, really, more than an inkling of who. He knew Deadlock's handiwork from intimate experience, and the more he remembered of his patchwork memories from his stint in London, the more he recalled how easy it had been to disable the damn thing. But that meant Deadlock had been back for a while now. The whole biker club thing had been going for a while, but it was awful strange that they'd had no missions at all investigating the region if they were back to makin' bombs before Overwatch even fell.

And Jesse also sure as hell knew that they'd be eager to make Overwatch pay for thinning their ranks out, taking them out as surgically as Jesse knew Gabriel had. They'd also be real eager to make Gabriel Reyes himself pay for it. They had a revenge streak, Jesse'd know both from havin' been in it once, himself, but also from how he knew, going where he would be goin', he was gonna have the odds stacked against him from the start. Sure, it was fond to be remembered, but hell, he already had the damn cops to worry about.

Which just reaffirmed another point in his editorial on Hanamura- crime was running rampant, and the authorities sure as hell didn't seem to care who the actual bad guys were, nor did they seem ready to do anything about the situation.

The rest of the morning was simple, really. He did a quick batch of laundry, put away the sheets he borrowed for the night, and cleaned up the dishes he'd used in the morning.

Just 'cause he was squatting, didn't mean that he'd given up basic manners, cmon now. He still had a basic sense of human decency, after all.

The sense of morality that Gabriel Reyes had fostered in him after years of working n' following the man who was made of finer things than McCree ever had been, along with the deep love he'd felt for him, despite how they ended, it was ingrained in Jesse as the red was dyed in the wool o' his serape.


	2. Chapter 2

The Prodigal Son

XXXXX

Ain't much had changed about Deadlock Gorge in the 19 odd years following the bust- that was for damn sure. Cigar forgotten in the attempt to appear less like the usual suspect, McCree was already itchin' for some tobacco. However, he'd gone to a whole lotta trouble for this look, and so he'd have to keep his hat on and cigars in his pocket. Gabriel would be awful disappointed in him if he gave into his vices and got caught for em.

The nagging voice in his head, the one that was becomin' harder to ignore, sober and not smoking, reminded him that it was gonna be nigh impossible to disappoint Gabriel Reyes more than he already had.

 _Hypocrite_ , his head reminded him of his choices, while the memory of Gabriel Reyes slithered in his head and coiled like a snake and a noose around his neck, rattling dangerously with the words _hypocrite,_ and _liar._

 _Traitor,_ Gabriel hisses in the empty hot air, and Jesse has that familiar guilt settled in his gut, from where the snake pressed down on his emotions and blamed him for having them. As he stared at himself in the mirror, he held his breath, because for a goddamned moment it felt like Gabriel Reyes could be right behind him.

 _Ingrate_. The snake whispered in his ear, and Jesse breathed out hard.

He was washing himself up in the old diner, since he'd jumped off the train like all o' em had done back in the day. He coulda sworn his knees protested the action less back then, but perhaps that was the change in the reason. The bathroom was as disgusting and dilapidated as he remembered it, but it made for a good place to make sure his look in the mirror was about right. Clean-shaven, red haired, and blue eyed. He whistled slightly as his fingers lightly ran across his face. He made a damn fine ginger, if he did say himself, but hell if he'd ever do this to his hair again.

He stretched, and donned a dusty blue motorcycle jacket, before putting peacekeeper away in her holster, and going out to order some of the god-awful coffee with his best naïve smile. He'd gotten good at it over the years. The best way to fit in unnoticed was to stand out more than anyone else.

"Good business today." He commented to the young thang workin' the counter, laying down a few dollars in payment, tip included.

The girl, Danny, from her nametag pinned up high on her chest nodded. "Yes, it's been real nice. Business here crashed, ever since they built the train over us…it's almost put us out of business." She gave a toothy grin. "But Deadlock's gonna change that- they're setting up camp here again."

Ah yes, Jesse remembered all that. About Gabriel's theoretical talk about the double-edged sword of progress, and the theoretical people that got left behind and alone in the dirt.

It'd been maybe 15 years ago when he and Gabe had argued about it- about winners, and losers, and economics. In honesty, Jesse hated economic theory, but back then he loved listening to how passionately Gabe had spoken about it- even if his opinion had infuriated him back when it had happened.

" _They're putting a train over Deadlock Gorge." He'd slammed the news article down on Gabe's desk, eyes hard. "It's gonna kill anything good in that damn place you worked so hard to clear the bad out of."_

 _Gabriel looked up at him, slightly unimpressed with his attitude. "People are moving out of there, Jesse."_

" _A lot of folks can't though, boss." He pointed out. "I was one of them. For others, Route 66 is one of the only places they still feel a connection to, after the Crisis."_

" _There's always going to be winners and losers in these types of situations, McCree." He'd explained coolly, glancing over the news article. "There's a stop nearby, Route 66 is a popular tourist spot. But regardless of that- these trains are going to connect so much of the United States- so many of these more remote places were completely cut off from the rest of society following the crisis._

" _Seems a bit unfair when the game's rigged in favor of those who can get where the going's expensive." He muttered. "If there's somethin' my Pa managed to beat over my head, its that tourism does shitty things to good places. If it does become a tourist hotspot, I know for fact at least half the folks there won't be able to buy jack shit, Bossman."_

" _It won't raise prices immediately, Jesse. And besides- even though people might lose out in some areas, they'll make up for it in other areas. Congress is apparently working on new legislation allowing increased world-wide trade sans tariffs, which means lower prices for everyone."_

 _That made Jesse scoff. "But there aint gonna be any work for them to buy any of that stuff with."_

" _I'm sure they'll find something." Gabriel reassured, seeming a bit overconfident. "Humans are good for finding ways to survive against adversity. I've always considered that one of our finer qualities."_

" _Yanno, folks actually did find somethin', back when lots of folks 'round these parts had similar issues n' 1976." Jesse admitted, after taking a moment to contemplate his words and blasé attitude._

" _And what was that?" Gabriel asked, holding the newspaper back for him, eying Jesse carefully._

" _Deadlock." He'd replied matter-o-factly, and snatched it out of his hands, and turned tail on his heel, heading out, madder than a wet hen over the subject. Even though Jesse wouldn't ever feel right about going back there… that didn't mean he didn't care about the struggles they were goin' through. Not when he'd gone through them himself._

And Jesse'd been right, of course- unfortunate as that was to say.

Despite how he didn't necessarily have the same kinda a education as Gabriel had, he'd been smart, and was always one to tell him how it was. The young woman gave him his drink, and smiled brightly again, going to chat up some of the other customers while he sat on the red vinyl stool, the sound of people talkin' almost able to drown out the next train that ran overhead, but not quite.

He did his damndest to avoid making a face as he choked it down. The taste was exactly like how he remembered it being a cross between roadkill's fried intestines simmered down to a liquid with a burnt pot- though that gave the chef too much credit- and boiled dirt.

Yep. Some things never did change.

XXXXX

After he had stolen someone else's rather nice and fancy looking bike, he was on the old road, and looking around at how little Deadlock had changed. Something in his gut felt…sad, disappointed. Like he'd failed this pocket of the world. Blackwatch had took this down when it took him in, and yet…Jesse McCree was outta work, n' Deadlock was prospering again.

 _An exercise in futility_ , Ana had called it as she had gone to Cairo to help with the growing humanitarian crisis that had began in Egypt 7 years ago, her expression stricken. _We got so far, and yet…it's so easily swept away_.

He sighed at the memory, attempting to shake it off like it was a cobweb, n' not somethin' that had become stuck in his moral fabric.

After all- even though Ana had called it an exercise in futility, she still thought it was worth doing.

Which meant that McCree had to figure out who in the Hell was supplying Deadlock with funds when they were supposed to be doin' jack with shit. And that was what he was doing.

He parked the bike, and sighed as he stretched a bit. This would be over quick; he'd be in and out before anyone ever noticed him.

"Knock on wood," He muttered to himself, walking through the emptied out bar, seeing as the patrons along with its tender had gone out to see the show. Nah, he knew the back way in, and seeing the deadlock symbol inside just…confirmed things. So this was where they were doin' it.

The ol' HQ was a bit ramshackle now, a bit…dirty and rusted over, but there were signs of use. Strange how 20 years ago, he'd been workin', gettin' paid, havin' sex, doin' all sortsa to make his Pa roll in his grave, all in this one place located smack in the middle of hell's cracked-dry armpit.

It was also the place he'd met Gabriel.

In the office, there were files, papers, and McCree picked up a few of them, stuffing them away in his shirt. He didn't have a bunch of time to just peruse the papertrail. Gone were the days of havin' days just to collect info. No, these days it was done hot n' fast and dirty, prolly with a bit of bloodshed, despite Jesse's best damn efforts to keep that to a minimum.

Jesse looked up, and spotted the camera, and sighed.

Best be quicker, then.

A quick look at the break room, where the billiards table was, where he'd gotten pushed up against the thing and handcuffed, where Gabriel had prepositioned him in the first place.

 _Pissed off like a shaken hornet, he'd been, spittin' out blood and glarin' at the older man who seemed caught in an indecisive combination of shock and exhilaration._

" _What's your name, punk?" He'd asked, breathless, his team still taking their damn time to round up anyone else straggling in the back._

" _Jesse McCree." He'd ground out, n' though he'd hated it at first, all covered in blood and sweat and the red sand of the rocks n' desert, it had been the best damn thing to ever happen to him._

" _Well, you're one of only two damn people in the world who could prolly do that, and I've never seen the other manage." He'd explained. "Combine that with- hey, what's in the back room here?" He'd asked, seeming to have gotten ahead of himself._

" _That's the enrichment facilities," he explained in a slow voice. "That's where we make the big bombs," He mocked, and the man rolled his eyes._

" _Knock it off, ingrate, I'm doing you a damn favor."_

 _His deep brown eyes gleamed. "Reflexes like that, gun skills like that, and a knowledge of what you lot are doing down here….oh yes, I can work with that."_

" _If I might, what the_ hell _are you talking about," he asked, voice saccharine sweet and belying his frustration with his confusion._

" _Kid, as I see it, you have two options." He sat on the billiards table, looking at Jesse with a sense of somethin' that was almost…camadarie? "First, given that you lot are dealing nukes and other weapons of mass destruction, you're looking at maximum security prison, and at least one life sentence, prolly more." He drawled some, not in the heavy way like Jesse would, or how a few of the other Southerners would, thick like humidity that didn't exist out in these parts. Naw- his wasn't sweet at all. Californian, then. "Or, you come work for me. And we both see what you can be with some…. polishing," he explained._

" _That's not a fuckin' choice if I have half a fuckin' brain." Jesse pointed it out, unimpressed, and feelin' not unlike the cornered animal with a gun pointed between the eyes._

" _Then you know which option to take." Gabriel had said, and god smite him down if Jesse hadn't wished he had his hands free to just knock that damn smirk off his face._

 _Opción dos, then._

And here he was now.

He pushed open the door, to where the old enrichment facilities were, and whistled as he saw the whole thing stripped down. Reyes had been busy, back durin' that operation. Not that McCree knew, given that once he'd been whisked out of the desert, he'd not seen it in 20 years.

But damn if nothin' else had been done to it in 20 years.

He whistled some, hands on his hips as he rubbed at his forehead, contemplating this. So they weren't manufacturing them anymore. Interesting- but, they had to come from somewhere, n' Jesse was sure there was a money trail. These things cost money to get, when they weren't makin' them on site- and they were usually from government facilities.

He left the room, and headed back to the office, the unnatural quiet of the place beginning to bother him. Somethin' didn't feel quite right about being here- even more so than before.

He was bein' watched, and he didn't like that, not one bit.

But dammit if he wasn't gonna get what he came for. If Deadlock didn't give Talon the bomb that took down Zurich, he imagined whoever supplied it did.

He didn't even waste time by bein' neat, tearing open the file cabinets, and looking for somethin' nice and simple.

He found it, and grinned. A map of the train that ran above Deadlock gorge- cause that was the only real way people got in and out of this damn place anymore. And gladly for him, there was some nice bright red sharpie around Grand Junction, Colorado.

He went back to the cabinets, and tore open the ones that ran from A-C, and specifically at the ones relating to Colorado.

Jesse had figured, but it was always good to be sure when it came to these kindsa things.

The furthest he got was a torn-apart check for an unknown amount of money, with the name Vialli on it, before he felt a sharp blow with a heavy dark _somethin_ ' to the temple, and saw the filing cabinet comin' fast towards his face before his world went dark.

XXXXX

When his vision cleared, sorry as it was to say, Jesse McCree found himself in a familiar position- down on his side with people's feet on top of him, holding him down, and a man's foot in his face.

A quick analysis, courtesy of his swimming head: he'd been caught by someone from the original group, and he'd hit hit the filing cabinet on the way down, which hurt, and he felt a lil woozy, and he sure as hell couldn't feel peacekeeper weighted against his leg in her holster.

Figures.

"Well now boys, looks like the prodigal son returns." The man stomped his foot down onto McCree's hat, and McCree looked up at him with cool, collected eyes, despite the blood that was trickling down into them, to see a one Andy Robertson- a familiar face, even if he'd aged a damn sight better than McCree had.

His panic abated now that the crisis was averted, and Jesse took in a breath to catch it. Oh, now this, he could handle.

Sure, he was caught and quite literally underfoot of a few unknown gooks whose faces he couldn't see, but he's learned a thing or two since leaving this godforsaken gorge, in particular about a _few_ of his ex-coworkers.

"I seem to recall that bible story havin' a slightly different meaning." He taunted, eyes hard as he stared them down from his place on the floor. "But we all know you aint ever were the type to really pay attention in church."

"You ran off, joined the damn feds." Andy mocked back, not rising to his bait.

"Never once ran with the feds." Jesse spat up blood from the floor. "Was with Blackwatch."

"So worse than the feds. You were runnin' with the sons of bitches who took us down to begin with!" He got another kick in the gut, and the other two fuckers laughed some as McCree gasped in pain.

"It was that or prison." He explained after taking a moment to clear his throat. "I'm sure you know all about that makin' that particular choice, dontcha Andy." His brown eyes locked with Andrew as he drew out the word particular, and Andy, and Jesse fought back a smirk as the pleased look on his ex-coworker's face fell, and his skin paled slightly. They stared at each other for a long moment, and McCree kept his cool as blood ran down his temple, and his chin. This wasn't his first rodeo.

" _See McCree, there are two games that we're interested in when I talk Game Theory- the Prisoner's Dilemma and Chicken. Chicken's the simpler one, so I'll explain it first. In a game of chicken, two cars are speeding toward each other and the goal is to not be the first one to pull out. If neither pull out, then they'll both die in the crash, but to be the first one to pull out, well, it's a matter of honor. You pull out first, and you're the chicken."_ Gabriel's voice explained in the back of his mind. _"It applies to political and interpersonal relations too."_

The other two younger men looked at Andy carefully, and Andy's jaw locked, as his Adam's apple bobbed, before he sent them out of the ransacked office with a gesture. They looked a bit confused, but McCree had to bite back his smug remark.

"You ain't got nothin' on me." Andrew cut into him, hazel eyes squinted, grip on his gun slackening some. It let McCree more comfortably sit up, knowing he had already won the first round.

"I'm sure some of the folks here wonder how you got outta the gorge just before the raids came." Jesse reminded. "Wonder what they'll say if I told them we had a rat all along."

"I was 19!" He argued hotly, "I wasn't about to spend the rest of my damn life in prison, they had us, McCree, we were had. And anyways, I'm back now. Helpin' run this whole damn operation."

"N' I was 17. And that apparently, by your pristine standards, was no damn excuse for me," Jesse pointed out, his smugness starting to leak into his tone. "And I wasn't a rat."

"I could kill you." Andy said, his body tense as he focused his gun around McCree's head again. "I should- I'd be rewarded for it."

There's where's McCree smiled. Andy was desperate. And though he'd run with Deadlock, Jesse knew that deep in his heart, Andrew Robertson wasn't one for killin' folks. Nah. He'd never liked it, never had been able to stomach it- was why he'd squealed to the Feds, why he'd asked that none of his coworkers get killed in the raid.

" _With the Prisoner's Dilemma, there are two prisoners- who separately have interrogations, and therefore, two outcomes for each one, four outcomes in total. They can choose to cooperate; not say anything to the cops end with…well, lets say one year in jail. Or they could defect- if the other one cooperated, they'll have no prison time, but the other will have 20 years. And if they both defect, well, they'll both have 10 years in jail."_ Gabriel's voice continued calmly inside his head. _"Neither side has a reason to cooperate with the other because they can't know what the other will choose- 10 years is better than 20 years, and getting off Scott-free is even better than 10. Even though the option where they both cooperate is better than any of the others for the both of them, they still both choose to go against the other because neither of them wants to be stuck in jail for 20 years, therefore the game ends with both of them in jail for 10 years, because they both defected."_

"Butcha won't." McCree drawled lazily. "N' what would you get outta it anyway. Sure, I'd be dead, but you already admitted to the crime yourself." His head jerked to the camera up in the corner of the room. "And I'm sure that gunshot will draw a lotta attention to this spot real quick, now won't it. Surely quick enough you won't be able to delete that particular footage- and I'm sure everyone round here will wanna see Andy "shotmisser" Robertson kill me for themselves." He finished, and smirked, knowing he'd won.

" _That is, unless there's more than one round of the game. When there's continued repercussions for actions, rather than a single choice, we tend to see more cooperation, than defection. And when one side cooperates one round, the other will as well. If one defects the first round, the other will defect the second round. This is known as tit-for-tat. If there's repercussions for defecting, then people are more likely to cooperate to begin with."_ Gabriel wrapped up, and Andy lowered his weapon, defeated in this particular battle of wits.

Tit for tat.

XXXXX

Getting out was, indeed, the tricky bit, but Andy showed him the new way through the side with the newly installed magnetic "floating" platforms, and the two of them escaped above the younger members heads, rather than under their noses.

If McCree had stuffed a few of Deadlock's files beneath his shirt, well, that wasn't any of Andy's business anymore, considering the two of them were leaving together, and then partin' ways, again.

Andy itched to get out, and once the had departed, he almost looked like he'd wanted to say something, but…in the end, turned tail and slunk back to the diner- prolly intending on taking the next train out of New Mexico. McCree went the other way, towards some of the back caves where the harder escape was.

Jesse knew what Andy had prolly wanted to say. Good to see you alive, doin' something with yourself. Back when they were just kids, Andy and him had been partners. Andy had known Jesse was smarter, better and more cunning than him, and he'd been two years younger. They'd both been orphaned by the crisis, when Jesse was 11, and Andy was 13. Both came from outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico, even.

He knew that was what Andy had wanted to say, because in truth, Jesse'd meant to say it too.

Andy hadn't been right in the head, back when they'd worked together. He'd been soft, hadn't really ever been cut out for Deadlock's work. His daddy had been an EMT, and his mama had worked in local government. His mama, Esperanza- who'd come over with Tamales and let Jesse's Pa Luis borrow a cup of sugar on more than one occasion- had been killed in a hostage situation, and his daddy died in a cloud of gore when he'd gone in at the start of the war. While Luis' death had hardened McCree, their deaths had made Andy anxious and shaky with a gun. But since they'd known each other for so long, they'd gone to Deadlock and done their part in killin' bots- Andy, makin' bombs with the uranium they'd stolen and enriched together, and Jesse with a six-shooter. Andy had done better with authority, where Jesse would stick it to the man.

" _I am your boss!"_

" _And what's that gotta do with respect, Reyes? All I see is a man fulla himself." Jesse jeered back, body sore and hurt and bleeding from too many rounds. He didn't wanna keep doing this. He didn't even have his heart in this sterile fighting room out in fuckin' Switzerland._

" _I was Strike Commander! I fought in the Crisis, led humanity to victory!" He'd argued, and Jesse shrugged._

 _"We all fought in the damn war, myself included. Who knows what really stopped them? You're not special."_ _He'd cut into Reyes with brutal words, 17 and full of hot air and anger at being dragged so far from home, away from his whole damn life._

They had been all that was left of everything the other had ever known. It had once made McCree downright furious to know that he'd been betrayed by someone he'd protected for all those years, but… at the same time, fury had been tempered by the years apart, and it cooled into somethin' to realize that Andy had been scared the whole damn time. Sure, he'd come back, but…again, Jesse prolly woulda if he'd not gotten caught, not gotten sucked up into Gabe's deal, into Blackwatch.

Money to be made, a job to be done, a life to be lived out in the desert, just like their folks had before them.

And as Jesse walked away in the darkness of the now-unlit cave, he wondered if his betrayal of Gabriel by walkin' away had been tit-for-tat acting so many years after the fact. But it had also been hypocritical. He'd been so hurt, so angry that Andy had left him, run before Deadlock's end at the hands of Overwatch, had helped ushered it forward. But he understood it now, why Andy couldn't. He did, completely.

A way to not see the look on the face of the one you're closest to, as you know the end is coming for them, when you leave them to their fate.

He fumbled his way around until he found the old gas lantern, lighting it up with his cigar lighter, and sighed as he set it back down, looking to where he'd left his belongings before he'd gone in. He set down the stolen files, and rubbed his face.

It'd been good to see him. He looked even better than McCree himself did. He shoulda brought him with him. Andy woulda been invaluable help in tracking down whoever this Vialli person was. Too late now, he supposed as he got out of his get-up, and sighed again, taking a long sip of his bourbon from his flask.

Looks like Andy would be just another ghost in Jesse's past, then. Another missed opportunity. He thought of Genji running, of Angela staying, and her angelic face covered in tears, and the likely dead comm in his pockets as she _excused_ him for running, bless her. And worst of all, he thought of Gabriel, of the weight that the choice still left on his soul. Of the snake that tightened as he felt the sob catch on it in his throat.

Gabe begged it of him after the explosion, when he was put into the hospital. Jesse couldn't remember that, not until recently. It had gotten between them, he thought now. " _I need you_!" He'd cried, expression panicked. " _Don't leave me Jesse_."

But he had, in the end. He'd torn away in the night, after Gabriel's internal agreement to the conspiracy that brought down Overwatch.

He sat there, the sob caught in his throat, but utterly miserable as the memory of their final fight, of Gabriel contradicting himself when they'd been at his sister's beach house and Gabriel had told him that Jesse was everything to Gabe. He stayed there for god-knows how long, before he spotted somethin' changed about the old cave when he lit himself a cigar, pulling the light closer to him. He picked up the lantern to get a closer look at the strange flash of darker red on the cave floor.

It was a tattered old piece of red fabric that was once a bandana, with a bloodstain on it. He didn't need a blood test to recognize it- it had been his, a lifetime ago. Back in the early days of Blackwatch, before he'd worn the rather dashing black cape that fed into his ego centered on being a hand of justice in a broken world, he'd worn a red bandana. It wouldn't be interesting, had he not lost it years ago, though it had been so long ago he couldn't even remember where or on what mission. Around his mid twenties, certainly, but…he'd not been here in almost 20 years. The fabric had dust, and bugs on it. It'd been here for a while. And someone had placed it here. But who? When did it get here?

Somethin' thick was caught in his throat as he placed when he'd lost it.

The last time Jesse'd seen it was when he'd tied it tight around Gabe's arm and told him that he wasn't gonna die there, not then, and they'd waited for medical evac in Angola, Gabe gravely injured. The last time he'd seen it was around Gabriel Reyes' arm, and never again. Not until now.

 _Tit for tat, ingrate,_ the snake rattled dangerously from where it was coiled around his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

Valley of the Shadow of Death

XXXXX

Jesse McCree woke up with his face down in fucking red hot sand, the sun beating down on his backside, and his head pounding from what had been a series of poor choices made no where else, but in Las Vegas. His mouth tasted like ass, so he knew that he had a few options- he'd had to have really gone and ridden someone else's wild side, mixed his alcohols with each other in ways that rightly had no business bein' together, or had gotten a lil something extra dusted into his mix. And none of those options felt more right than the others, which left him with Gabriel's voice tellin' him to Occam's Razor it.

Hard as it was to imagine, he mighta just out-drunk his alcoholic asses' tolerance.

"Is it out drank or out drunk," He muttered as he pulled himself upright, shoving his hat further down his face to shield himself from the fucking annoyance that was the sun. "Ah, who fuckin' gives a shit? I sure as hell don't." He muttered to no one in particular.

There was a motorcycle, completely outta gas, and when his hand went to his flask, it had also been completely emptied. Didn't even have fuckin' water in him. Damn his blackout drunk self lack of foresight. Not that not-blackout-drunk Jesse had much of that in the first place. It was still nice to just be able to complain.

After a moment of sitting there, mind blank as he stared out into the distance, looking westwards towards the vast expanse of a whole lot of nothing, eyes and head begging him for a bit more rest, he got up, shaking his head to clear it.

For some unknown goddamned reason, on _another_ one of his fender-benders, (cause one just wasn't _ever_ enough, he sarcastically thought, suddenly craving some damn Lays potato chips) courtesy of his absolutely wonderful mental health status, he had decided to bike out into the middle of fucking Death Valley until he ran out of fucking gas. And then he'd passed out in the sand. Of all the mundane ways Jesse McCree had envisioned drunk him try to take himself out in a blaze of fucking glory, death by exposure in _a_ fucking desert, not even _the_ one he'd grown up in, hadn't been one of them.

And he knew exactly what had fucking done it to him, too. The reappearance of the bandana had triggered it. It'd raised up the ugly head o' depression, and let it run round backstage of his mind like a chicken with its head cut off holding a sledgehammer that had just so happened to be on fire.

And _then,_ and only _then,_ he'd gone into Vegas and gotten hammered; both in the metaphorical, typical drinking sense, and metaphysically- by one mean ass motherfucking chicken.

Gabriel's voice in the back of his mind had a few things to say about _that_ particular use of time and his dwindling funds.

" _Jesse, you're smart. No one here could rightly deny you that."_ Gabriel said over a beer,in some sad echo ofsomething they once had, that had led to some sloppy make outs because Gabriel was still upset about Jack Morrison and Jesse had been willing to drink to fucking yourself over. " _You can literally headshot 6 people from halfway across the damn world it feels like- accounting for wind, future movement, others intervening and fighting them. No. You're not even just street smart- you're fucking genius."_

There'd been a pregnant pause, as Jesse and Gabe stared at each other back then, and now as Jesse cracked his back. Sleeping ass-up wasn't ever fun, and it meant he had too much fucking sand up his nose.

" _Now, if that translates into making smart decisions for yourself… That's a different fucking question alto-fucking-gether."_

Naw, Jesse couldn't fool himself there and say Gabe was wrong about that particular character flaw.

He took out the bandana from where he'd stuffed it into his pocket, and ran his fingers over it, where the stain left by dried blood had made it stiff and brown. He knew where he lost this, down to a T. And it felt important to remember it. It had definitely been placed there intentionally. When, or why, or by who…all missing information.

But the person he'd last seen it with enjoyed that sort of literary device nonsense, and had saddled Jesse with that same sorta knowledge. It felt like a sign. A sign of what… perhaps was something he could figure out.

Angola- a mission gone wrong, one of the first ones where Jesse was startin' to act something a bit more like a SIC for Gabe, and Camadarie and thoughts that the man was kinda hot turned into something that was flavored somethin' sweeter.

He'd bandaged Gabe's wounded arm up himself, using the bandana as the bandage- and told him to stay down, that help was on the way. And he'd not seen it since…why, was something he recalled too.

" _Jesse, the docs took it from me, it's still in medical somewhere- I'll get it back for you." Gabriel sat down next to him with an apologetic smile. "Might take some time, though."_

" _Don't worry 'bout it Gabe, was about time I started wearing team colors anyway," Jesse explained with a blasé shrug._

" _Will you two be quiet? I want to see the movie." Fareeha had shoved at Jesse; using her other arm to swat Gabe- shoving him was a futile thing after all._

" _Ugh, now you're both poisoning the youth with your bad taste." Jack had said, shaking his head in disapproval._

" _I'm 15! And it's good!" She had resisted the accusation, and Gabriel shrugged at jack with an affectionate smile._

" _Or so bad it's good. C'mon Jack. The 2004 version of Van Helsing is a classic."_

 _He looked at the movie, and then at Jesse, and the two of them shouted in melodramatic unison with the monster on screen. "Though I may walk in the valley of the shadow of Death- I shall fear no evil!"_

 _Jesse cackled with him. "And we aint gonna fear nay-Sayers either. Now git, this is Gabe and I's thing."_

 _Jack had raised an eyebrow at that, giving Gabe a meaningful look, which he shrugged at. "Sorry hun. I did schedule this with them."_

 _Jack had turned with an eyeroll, and Fareeha had muttered that though Jack seemed so against the film, he sure was acting the part of the melodramatic bitch bride._

Yeah, this all seemed like a very Gabe thing to do. Drunk him wasn't completely dumb either. It'd prolly hit him and he'd driven out into the literal valley of Death. But the quote focuses on how it was the shadow- not Death Valley.

And Death Valley was in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains- a place with many of the storage facilities of nukes in the continental US, and, interestingly…an old Watchpoint. Watchpoint: Grand Mesa, where Fareeha was currently stationed by her employers. Fareeha, too, walked in the shadow of Death- Ana's death.

Jesse didn't know how, didn't know when, didn't even know if Gabriel had really done this. But it just _felt_ like something he would've. And lord god above knew that if Jesse was gonna be runnin' round, making a fool out of himself, he could at least spare a moment and chase the white rabbit that enticed with promises of knowing more about what the fuck happened to Gabriel.

He turned his eyes toward the rising sun; head and hat tilted downwards, and started to walk. He had some ground to travel- and to pull himself out from this ditch he'd fallen into.

With a heaving breath, and already feeling like he needed a helluva lot more water than he had on him, he looked up, to where the sunrise was coming over the Rocky Mountains.

The base where Jesse had spent much of his twenties lay to the northeast of here.

And in the distance, a figure robed in black stood out in the mirage of the world, as Gabriel's voice whispered in his ear.

" _You ready to tango, gunslinger?"_ The echo of Gabriel's bemused voice from a D&D campaign a lifetime ago rang in his ears as the figure turned, and vanished, as though he hadn't ever been there in the first place.

Slightly piqued interest turned into desperate, clawing curiosity, as the quote from Gabe and his favorite Stephan King novel ran through his mind.

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." He murmured reverantly. Sure, this was more than likely just a desperate concoction by a hung-over alcoholic desperate to avoid thinkin' on all the mistakes he'd made in his life…but…

Hoping for somethin' was better than cursin' at nothin.

And the gunslinger followed.

XXXXX

AUGUST, 2075

Colorado was too damn hot, this time of year. But, it was unfortunately where Jesse McCree had ended up when he was trying to figure out what, exactly, he was being led there for.

At least he was, until something that was far bigger than him raised its ugly head.

"FADING GLORY: ON THE TRAIL OF JACK MORRISON," Read the title of the latest sensationalist article by Miss Shaw.

(Though he really honestly wasn't ever able to say that. Much as it has always pained him to ever admit it, even to himself, Jack "Ketchup is my favorite spice" Morrison was hot. Maybe not a 10 in Jesse's book, but at least like, a 8. Maybe even a 9, now that he'd gone grey. It also pained him to say he liked older men. They looked distinguished, ok.)

But, no. He wasn't going to go further down that fucked up rabbit hole, and he drank some of his whiskey to shake away even thinking the sacrilegious idea that Jack Morrison was hot.

He dated Gabe, after all. What more could he want?

He didn't even really know why his feet took him down to the Boulder Valley area- but he figured, even though Jack had appeared on the other side of the mountains, he'd wanna put distance between himself and the base that, unfortunately, Jesse'd been too afraid to call Fareeha and go into.

And Jesse didn't know exactly why primarily because he and Morrison had never seen eye to eye. Not before Jesse dated Gabe, not after since he got that stink eye a helluva lot more after the fact. And then there was the complication that Morrison was running from the damn world. Especially now that Shaw's exposé put him at risk of every Overwatch ally and enemy coming out of the woodwork to track him down now. And hell if Jack would really consider him one of those or the other, since Jack and him aint never got along better than oil and water.

He knew why it was, unconsciously at least.

The only other one known to have gone down in that explosion…it'd been Jack.

The only one that would be able to verify his…conspiracy theory, crazed refusal of somethin' he'd viewed as an objective truth since the day it'd happened. The truth that they were both dead- since who the fuck had a thing where they'd lie about the two greatest men in this half the 21st century being dead?

Jack Morrison just being up and kicking, in itself, was already some pretty strong evidence to the contrary- but he had to ask…Jack being alive wasn't necessarily surprising. Gabe himself had often commented the man was like a weed, always able to grow in new, creative places and ways.

And stick up his ass, letter to the law Morrison becoming a vigilante? That was definitely some new and creative ways. And hell if Jesse was gonna pass up a chance to see that. He'd pay to fucking see that, really. Part of…the whole last mess with Blackwatch had come from the fact he'd been willing to turn Jesse over to the court to put in jail the rest of his natural life for quote on quote "vigilantism" now that it'd been publicized why he'd been on trial, after a series of actually…somewhat redeeming TV specials on the fall of Overwatch.

Naw, he knew the original reason for his guilty verdict was somethin' that had never seen the light of day. It was all done behind closed doors and deep black curtains in front of a one-way mirror. N' there wasn't no way to see inside, even as they watched you squirm and suffocate in the curtains tightening around you like oppressive dark waters of the storming ocean.

Issue was. Jack Morrison was a helluva hard man to find.

Thankfully- his quarry decided to come to him, first.

Jesse had been up drinking in some slightly shadey bar in the middle of the night. Nothing out of the usual there, when someone in a cheesy fucking all-American motorcycle getup sat at his table, wearing a military-grade tactical visor and carrying a certain gun that had appeared in the news.

He looked up, and a red gaze stared down at him. A hoarse voice grumbled, "I looked at this place, and I thought to myself… this looks like a place where Jesse McCree would drink and be sad. And here you are."

McCree sipped his bourbon quietly. "You're a hard man to find." He pointed out dryly.

"That's the goal." He shrugged, putting the gun down beneath the booth. "I think I'll join you," He admitted.

"Gotta love open carry laws," McCree commented absently, and Jack removed his mask, grabbing the bottle and taking a deep swig of McCree's bourbon- much to Jesse's distaste. "Yanno, you could have at least asked for a second glass, Jack."

"I've taken a few notes from you." He said, giving him an even look across the table, relaxing into the worn down vinyl booth. "Including asking for forgiveness, not permission."

Jesse let out a disgusted grunt, raising an eyebrow. "Really now? Seems like more than that." He asked, looking from the bourbon bottle to Jack again. His blue eyes were hard, as he sat in the seat, looking at Jesse carefully.

"Yes." He agreed rather simply. "You weren't at Zurich." He pointed out, leaning back against the vinyl with an awkward creak of the well worn down leather against the cheaper fabric.

"And you were," Jesse drawled back, pouring Jack a glass. "But now we're both here. Got some questions for you."

"And I have my own. Why weren't you at Zurich?" Jack asked, insistently, holding his glass close to his chest, leaning in some.

Jesse rolled his drink around, looking at the amber fluid carefully. "I wasn't about to let Reyes get me killed, or really…if I remember right, let him kill me." He answered simply. "He was talking nonsense- Blackwatch was planning a rebellion. I don't remember much of what they actually said, 'cause of the pain pills or the drinking, or maybe some of both. I remember clearly though, that Gabriel Reyes mocked my suggestion for just packing shit and leaving, or I think he thought I was gonna ask him to." He sipped his drink, brow somewhat furrowed. "He, well…he turned on me. I told him his plan was crazy talk. Was destroying everything he had ever built. And he called me a traitor, and an ingrate. And so I kicked him out of my room, and ran away in the middle of the night, after sleeping some of whatever funk had come over me."

Jacks eyes were glued on him the entire time, leather gloves wrapped tightly around his glass of bourbon. And then he downed the whole glass.

"You didn't think to tell me?" He said, when he came out the other side of drowning.

"Fuck, Jack, I woulda reckoned you would have refused to see me." He pointed out blandly, shaking his head. "Not to mention Gabe was already calling me a traitorous ingrate. And I wasn't eager to take a side in the fight. The only ones I woulda told on your side were Ana, Angela, or Reinhardt, one was dead, the other working in the hospital a few miles away, and the last one being benched and living out in Germany."

His face belied his frustration with that explanation, but he simply poured a second glass instead of critiquing McCree for it. Good- he could be taught. This time, he was a lot slower.

Silence reigned for a moment, before Jesse realized- it was his turn to ask his question.

"…Speaking of Zurich," He began, slowly, cordially.

"He's dead, Jesse." Jack cut in coldly, making eye contact with him, his blue gaze like ice. "I saw it happen."

He was quiet, but…it still hurt to hear him confirm the truth... even if Jesse didn't quite believe that again.

"I've found some things." He admitted, rather quietly. "Perhaps you'll look into them."

He put his file on the table, and pushed it towards Jack, who looked at it owlishly.

"Deadlock." He pointed out the obvious, with the big ass fucking logo on the manila folder, and Jesse only nodded, while a gloved hand moved from its clutched position on the glass to open it up.

He carefully thumbed through a few things, vaguely interested. "Seems they're dealing with Talon." Jack muttered, tapping to a few things. "I recognize that shell company name. It has an offshore bank account- near Italy."

Jesse nodded, smirking now that Jack was perusing his hard earned work- and Jack was having a decent time of it, seeming relatively relaxed, until he looked up to pour himself another glass, and scowled at Jesse.

"God. Get that fucking smirk off that face."

"What smirk?" Jesse balked, while Jack simply took another long sip of bourbon.

Jack glowered. "That smirk. The one that says, see, my work is useful, you need me," He explained, even though it didn't explain much at all.

"Sounds like you're just projecting." Jesse called him out, crossing his arms in displeasure, his head buzzing with alcohol.

There was a beat, as the two of them stared at each other, and Jack shoved the manila folder aside at the same point that Jesse shoved the empty bottle to the side, the two of them meeting in the middle.

"I'll fuck that fucking smirk right off your damn face," Jack growled in between harsh, aggressive kisses, his chapped lips rough against Jesse's own.

"I'd like to see you try, goody two shoes Morrison," He fired back, as they got off the table in a tangle of limbs and clothes, Jesse grabbing his folder and shoving it into his bag as Jack took his mask and did the same, the two of them going to the bathroom after Jack slammed down a Jefferson onto the fucked up wooden table.

"You'll find I'm not such a goody two shoes anymore." He rasped, glaring as they undressed in a rush of dirty clothes and sweat in bathroom, Jack using his pulse rifle to hold the door shut. "Now shut up and fuck me." He demanded, and Jesse grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

"Quit your demanding, Morrison. I wanna hear you beg." Jesse said, getting a smirk from Jack, the two of them locked in a battle of unconscious wills, both half dressed in a trashy bar's bathroom, and Jack shut off the lights, so that they both could create a lie.

As Jesse roughly prepared Jack, to Jack's moaning pleasure in affirmation of his roughness, he thought absently of the things that Gabriel had loved about Jack here before him. Thought about what parts of Gabriel were left here, in Jack. His harsh edges, the way he demanded instead of begged, and the way he bended and begged.

His warmth was just like Gabe's had been. He was so warm. Gabe'd explained it as having been a super soldier- his metabolism was so fast, his entire body moved faster. Meant he got drunk faster, he had admitted over a glass of beer.

In the dark, it was easy to ignore the physical differences, and feel the muscles and scars and callouses that lay beneath the surface of Jack Morrison, the things that were made of the convergent evolution of Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes.

And Jesse was damn sure that Jack was using him for exactly the same reason. Imagining that someone that was long gone was still there, with him, and was able to fill some broken part of his soul. Feeling the impact of the man in both of them, making a complete picture of the one of them that was missing, the man that they had both loved, for insanely long times. Who had burned them both, and left them with smoke, ashes, and pain and confusion.

They were both just trying to fit the puzzle piece of the other into the hole that was…Gabriel Reyes.

And god, it dulled the pain, just to share it with someone else who had loved him just as much. Even if it only helped for the time being, with Jack Morrison cumming against Jesse McCree's stomach with a desperate shout without words.

They didn't need to share any. They both knew.

They parted ways that night, their relationship none the better, but also none the worse. Which was prolly to say the least, a different way of knowing Jack Morrison than Jesse had before.

They'd both changed. Some for the better, and some for the worse.

XXXXX

OCTOBER, 2075

With that particular mistake tucked firmly under his belt, and the messy connection between them broken after giving Jack some of those files, he found himself heading southward- but back over to the West.

It was getting colder, and he didn't have the funds to keep running around. It was time to settle down, and work to get some of that money back up. He'd wasted plenty in Vegas, and hadn't done any bounty work to make some.

So he returned to the place that he'd made his home again.

Santa Fe, New Mexico. His father's home, and his current base of operations.

Opening the door, he found all sorts of mail- plenty of people were seeking his skills, but he only would answer a few of these bounties. Of course, returning home was always a risk, but he and the rez had a sort of mutual understanding.

See, Jesse's ma had been a Navajo woman. Had her card and everything. But Jesse didn't have the blood quantum required. It meant, that when things went to shit and his Pa had died, Jesse'd been thrown to the wolves.

Which was something Jesse had said to his Uncle in the council. The man wasn't really his uncle, but rather, his ma's family's friend. Jesse McCree was mixed, but hadn't been native enough to be saved the pain he'd been through, being thrown to deadlock. And true, they could throw him to the wolves and turn him in, or they could use his presence as an unofficial security service.

As he sat down in his chair, it was clear to remember what choice they'd made.

He sighed, putting out Halloween candy that he'd grabbed from the general store in a cauldron he put on his front porch, with a warning to only take what was fair, sitting and throwing a match into his fireplace as the temperature got a bit nippy out in the night of the reservation.

The house next to Luis' had been repossessed and sold- the home of his childhood friend- but not this one, not Jesse's, mostly because the first thing Jesse did with his nice big checks from Blackwatch was make sure that it'd always be there for him. And it had stayed the same for a long time, the only stalwart of what he'd had out in the ever-changing, ever-evolving desert.

He sighed as he stared outwards, and reminisced on better times.

He opened up his old comm, and turned it on, charging it in the meanwhile, feeling a bit… nostalgic.

Prolly because he'd run into Jack and had sex with him- and the thought was still sort of vaguely haunting, but also because Halloween had been a time every year to just…group up and hang out. They told scary stories, got dressed up, all drank (except Ana, when Ramadan overlapped), and just generally had a damn good time. Some of the happiest memories they had were in Reinhardt's fancy schmancy living room, turned into party room and D&D headquarters.

He sent out a single text message, "Happy Halloween Ange," and then he turned it right back off, grabbing his bourbon, and sinking into the couch, closing his eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that he wasn't just alone with his thoughts and the ghosts of his past that haunted him, even now, threatening to choke him with the noose he made himself, or drown him in his own grief.

He'd keep moving along. He was sure of it.

Just needed some time to himself, was all. Not for the first time, he spent Halloween alone, and drunk, and thinking of better times altogether.


End file.
